


Christmas in March

by sebastianL (felix_atticus)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas fic, M/M, holiday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 02:31:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13114104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felix_atticus/pseuds/sebastianL
Summary: Harry finally unpacks his boxes and finds his Christmas tree. Of course, an argument ensues.A one shot set in the same universe as The Man Who Lived.





	Christmas in March

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, yes, I said I was unlikely to come back to this world, but I hit some writer's block and asked for prompts. I got Drarry and Christmas, so here is my brief contribution to that subgenre. Full disclosure: this was written and posted in a day, so it might be a little rough. It's a follow up to my massive 250k one, so if you haven't read that, this story will not make a lot of sense to you. 
> 
> Happy Holidays to everyone, and hoping all your traditions bring you joy, whatever they might be.

He finally finishes unpacking because I put my foot down. Because he’s been an absolute idiot and I have plenty of patience, but it’s not exactly inexhaustible.

            I told him I wasn’t coming back to his apartment until the boxes were gone. He’s been in New York nearly three months and every time I’m here, I have to holler at him to find something because it’s not where it logically would be. Oh no. It’s never where you’d expect it to be. Bread knife? Certainly not in a drawer. Hammer and nails so I could put up a painting he bought? Not in the closet. Nail clippers to forestall his continued whinging about the marks I leave down his back? Heaven forbid they be in the bathroom.

            No, everything is always in boxes. That hateful pile of boxes that’s filled the one wall of his living room since early January. If—if!—there were any rhyme or reason to how those boxes had been packed, maybe it would be a different story. Frankly, I’ve been at my wits end to the point where I considered unpacking it all myself, and I said so, but Harry nearly threw himself between the boxes and myself, explaining that all his wandmaking bits were mixed in with the rest of his things.

            The wandmaking bits that occasionally explode for no reason.

            I lost my temper about it last week. I came over after a long day, another one, where I’d done eight hours at the shop and another six doing my community service, three before work, three after. The next day was my one off, the one Harry makes me take so that I don’t completely burn myself out. And I thought, spend the evening with my daft boyfriend, wake up with him in the morning without having to rush off somewhere. Sounded like a good plan.

            Only I got there and the first thing I saw was that pile of boxes, half of them open, and Harry sitting on the sofa with his feet up, reading a book. Not a care in the world. I mean, I know that’s not true, but it’s certainly what it felt like after I’d worked a fourteen-hour day. Seeing that task undone after months of needing doing, I couldn’t stand it.

            So I said I wasn’t stepping foot in the apartment again until he went through every last box. He had the temerity to look at me like I was insane, and then said as much, and everything devolved from there. After a few minutes of arguing, I apparated back to my apartment and spent the night alone.

            The next day he phoned, and I felt both justified and sheepish for my outburst. “How are you?” Harry asked.

            “Tired.”

            “Still angry?”

            “Not angry, just…frustrated.”

            “They’re only boxes.”

            “They’re not,” I said, wanting to grab him and shake him. Or shake him and then hold him close.

            “What are they if they’re not only boxes?”

            “A symbol.”

            “Of what?”

            I shook my head at the ceiling, feeling an absolute fool. “Of maybe you’re not really here. That you don’t want to be, and you’ll just pick up and be off back to England.”

            There was a pause, and I expected him to comfort me. Tell me that I was being silly. Only when he spoke, he sounded irritated. “How can you say that?”

            “Because it’s—”

            “I left everything for you. I left my home, my family, my country, and came here for you, and that’s not enough? Like, seriously, Draco, when is it ever going to be enough?”

            “Jesus, Harry, you asked me a question, and I was just honest with you—”

            “Don’t put your fucking insecurities onto me—”

            I hung up on him. I did it with a certain amount of satisfaction too. The prick. I turned the phone to silent and threw it across the room and went back to bed for a few hours.

            And I’m not a man who turns off his phone for anything.

            A few days went by of us ignoring one another, until I was half sick from missing him and wondering how to apologize. He’s the first boyfriend I’ve ever had. I’ve never done this before. I don’t know the right words, the right rituals. The way to go about harming and mending one another in such a way that things don’t break for good.

            But then he sent a text this afternoon, saying, ‘I’m sorry. Please talk to me.’

            It was so forthright and pathetic. So here I am, just stepped inside his apartment, and it looks like a bloody warzone. Because he’s unpacking everything. It looks like there’s only two boxes left.

            Harry’s sitting on the ground in jeans and a sleeveless tee. He’s wearing a baseball cap I gave him, backwards to keep the hair from his face. Looking back over his shoulder, worry on his face, Harry says, “Hey.”

            “Hey.” I unlace my boots, and put my wand on the little plate he’s left by the door just for that purpose. It drives him mad when I toss the beautiful wand he made me on a counter. Or forget it in my boot. Which I might have done. Several times.

            I cross the room to him, weaving around items that he’s unshrunk for God only knows what reason. Sitting down behind him, I scoot up close and wrap my arms around him. I bury my face in his neck. His skin is damp. He’s been working all day. My heart lurches a little for this ridiculous man.

            Harry drops his head back on my shoulder, hooking his hands over my arms. “I know we’re going to have some fairly vicious rows,” he murmurs, “but I don’t like it when you’re not speaking to me.”

            “No. Nor I.” I kiss the place between jaw and cheek. “Just things to figure out as we go. I’m sorry I bottled it all up for when I was exhausted and had no filter between my brain and mouth.”

            “Now is a bad time to get you to reconsider your schedule, isn’t it.”

            “Sweetheart. Darling. Light of my life.”

            “Terrible time,” Harry says, answering his own question. I only call him those things when I need something or as a threat. “I’m sorry I didn’t think.” He lifts a hand. “Title of my follow-up autobiography, stifle yourself. But that I didn’t think about how this must look to you.”

            “I can’t say that I blame you. It was an awful lot to ask. Keeping things packed up, just in case, it’s smart—”

            “No.” Harry shifts so he can look at my face. “No. That’s not what it is. You know what it is?”

            “What?”

            “I’m lazy.” I start to chuckle, and I drop my forehead against his capped head. “A lot of this stuff, Draco, it’s the same boxes I took to Chiltern with me. I never unpacked them, all the years I was there. Just how I am. It’s not a reflection on where I want to be or how I feel about it. Or you. I fucking want to be here with you, you mad blond bastard.” He knocks his head against mine so that when I pull back, he can kiss the side of my mouth. “All right?”

            “Yeah,” I say quietly. I push the cap off his head, so I can see his gloriously disastrous hair. “Take that thing off.”

            Harry groans, pushing a hand through his hair. “Must look a proper mess.”

            “Mm.” I pull him back against me, nestling. After a moment, I glance about. He never exactly keeps the place as neat as I do mine, but this is bordering on bedlam. “Speaking of messes.”

            “I tried to do things a box at a time with my wand, but—there was an incident. So I’ve been doing it all item by item. Things I forgot I even had.”

            “Well. I imagine you’ve been at it for long enough to merit a break. How about I order something in, and once we’ve finished I’ll help you with all this?”

            “That sounds brilliant.” He laughs when I give him a quick few pecks on the lips, pushing me back with his elbows. “Go. Fetch me dinner.”

            Pushing myself to my feet, I reply, “I’ll fetch you your own arse in a sling you order me about.”

            I go to the kitchen—where all the counters are covered with items, shrunken and not. This is going to be a project of a few days. Well, I’m only supposed to be at the DRR tomorrow. It won’t be the end of the world if I only work four hours instead of ten. The man moved continents for me, after all.

            I take the menus out of the folder on top of the fridge. I bought the folder. Harry just kept tossing them up there and then being surprised when they’d fall behind the fridge. “What do you fancy?” I ask, flipping through the menus.

            “Oh, you know me. Pick whatever you like, then mock me when I inhale it—well, hello there.”

            Lifting my head, alarmed, I call, “What, did you find something living?”

            “No. Would I have sounded that calm if I found something alive in here?”

            Rolling my eyes, I say, “ _Yes_. Mr. ‘I’ll Just Jaunt Out of the City to Find a Hodag.’ For all I know, you’re befriending the cockroaches.” There’s the unmistakeable sound of something going from small to large in a short span of time. Harry. What is he doing? The living room is already packed. I give it a second, trying not to bow to curiosity, before giving in entirely. “Fine—if it’s not alive, what is it?”

            When Harry speaks, it’s obviously not to me. “C’mon now—you can do it—”

            I blow my hair off my forehead, and walk back around the corner.

            “Harry,” I say. “Why do you have the Christmas tree up?”

            There’s a tree taller than I am standing in the living room. It’s bushy and the scent of pine is already infusing every breath I take. It’s been strung with red and gold lights, which are lit. Harry is currently poking his wand at one that is not.

            “I forget, every year, about this damned light.”

            Looking at him like he’s a madman—which he obviously is—I say, “Do you not think that’s a problem that could wait until next December?”

            Without raising his head, Harry replies, “Put off until December what you can’t do today, eh Malfoy?”

            Infuriating. I hold out my hand. “ _Accio_ wand.” I catch it from the air, then stride over to the tree. “Out of the way.”

            “I have it—”

            “Did you not just say that it’s been out several years running?” I put the tip of my wand to the bulb. “ _Incendi_.”

            My wand gives the first notes of a sweet song that only I will hear, and the bulb lights.

            Harry scowls at me, and I shrug. “There. The bloody tree is lit. Can we put it away now?”

            “What have you got against my tree?”

            “Nothing, beyond the fact that it’s March.” I walk back to the kitchen, tossing the wand on its plate as I go.

            I lean back against the counter and continue going through the menus. No curry, because Harry will whine about being sick to death from a lifetime of it. Thai maybe? No. I’m not exactly in the mood for peanuts. Burgers perhaps.

            “Hey.” I look up. Harry’s popped around the corner, hands in his pockets. I take a second to appreciate the sight of him because, well, he’s him. Rumpled after working all day, collar bones on display, those subtle lines of muscle. The ring through his nose. And those fucking deadly eyes of his. He was going to be fucked tonight regardless, but I think I might fuck him senseless just based on looks. “What do you do for Christmas?”

            “Me?” I shrug, pulling out the menu for the retro diner that has a strange obsession with truffles. “I go wherever they’ll have me. Just another day, really.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “It means, Harry, that if someone invites me to dinner, I’ll say yes, I’ll bring a bottle of wine, and then, like magic, it’s the 26th and life continues. You don’t have to tell me what you do, I already know.”

            “How do you mean?” he asks, confused. “Do I go on about—” His eyes suddenly clear, and Harry frowns at me. “If you say ‘I read it in a book’ I will actually strangle you.”

            I give it a second, then say, “I read it in a book.” That gets me a very emphatic middle finger. I just wink at him and drawl, “Love, you know I can take more than one finger.”

            Harry flushes, consternated, but then he comes to lean against the counter across from me. For a moment I’m worried the pile of dishes he’s pressing against will fall, but he elbows them into place without even looking. Graceful prick. “But what traditions do you have? That’s what I’m asking.”

            Dropping the menu folder on the counter, I ask, “Why are you making such a big deal out of this?”

            “Well—Christmas is an important time of year. People usually—I mean, the people who celebrate it—they usually have traditions. Do you not celebrate it?”

            After a moment, I raise my shoulders apologetically. “It’s just not that important.”

            “How did I not know this?” Harry asks, and I don’t understand why he seems so floored by the information. “This last Christmas, when you said you weren’t really doing anything, I thought it was just because of all that happened.”

            “Well, yes. I was still trying to patch over the fact that I disappeared from my life for a week without any of my friends knowing where I was, and trying to get the last of the spell together for—well, for Evan. So it wasn’t really a priority.”

            “What did you do the Christmases before?”

            “I—if people were around and invited me to Christmas, I’d go. That’s it. What? Why are you giving me that look?”

            “I just—I assumed you’d go to Jason or Derrell’s. That you all had this—found family thing and you’d celebrate the same way.”

            “The way you do, you mean.”

            “Well, yes, I suppose so.”

            “It’s never been like that. Jason, he goes to his parents’ in Albany. Derrell goes down to Massachusetts to be with his family. Besides, I like having the day open. The boys, there’s always some crisis with someone. Family fighting, all that. I like being useful, not—worrying about a turkey or whatever it is you think I’m supposed to be doing.”

            “I don’t think you should be doing anything. I’m just surprised.”

            I snort, and cross the kitchen to him. “Harry.” I drape my arms over his shoulders. “Do I strike you as the type to hang onto tradition?”

            He smiles crookedly at that. “I suppose not.”

            He wraps his arms around my waist. I nuzzle my nose against his, close enough to pick out the little flecks in his eyes. “Do you know,” I murmur, “that you are the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

            “Yeah,” he says, and I shove him off with a laugh. He catches me and reels me back for a kiss. I don’t complain about that.

 

I mean to ask Harry about the registration. I do. It’s the most important thing going on with him right now. Of course that’s what we should be talking about.

            Only I walk through his front door and the fucking Christmas tree is still there.

            Flummoxed, I stand in the door a moment. “Harry!” I call, closing the door after myself. It’s the same place it was the last time I was here, just out in the middle. Everything else has been put away. So why not this?

            Harry steps out from the hallway, buttoning up his shirt. “Why are you yelling at me? You’ve only just got here.”

            “I’m not yelling, I’m trying to get your attention.”

            He crosses the living room, having to step around the tree to do it. He’s wearing an absolutely awful red shirt with a broomstick print on it. I can’t be seen in public with him—

            Oh, it didn’t go well. I can tell from the set of his face.

            “Hello,” I say, putting a hand to his cheek and leaning down for a kiss.

            “Hello yourself,” Harry says, trying to put on a good face. He smiles at me, then gets his shoes out of the closet.

            “Why is the tree still up?” I ask, confused.

            “Because it makes me happy to look at it.” Harry laces up his trainers, double knotting them, then pulls on his jacket. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

            “Magics,” I mutter. “Always have to be so bloody eccentric.”

 

“Why don’t you like Christmas?”

            I stall with the chip halfway to my mouth. “Sorry?”

            Harry takes another one. We’re sharing an order. He’s like that sometimes. Just wants to get something to share. I think it means a lot to him, sharing his food with me. I’ve never said anything about it.

            “Christmas. Why are you so against the concept?”

            “I’m not—against the concept. It’s just— _March_.”

            Harry shakes his head. “It’s not just that. Say the word.”

            “What word?”

            “Christmas.”

            “Christmas,” I echo, incredulous.

            Harry points at me. “There. That. That’s what I’m talking about.”

            “What are you on about—”

            “You have this _remarkably_ Malfoy tone of voice whenever you say the word. I so much as say Christmas and you look like your mother when she’s in the presence of muggles.”

            “Oh for fuck’s sake, it’s not that bad.”

            “So what’s the problem with Christmas?”

            We’re supposed to be talking about his wandmaker registration. He’s supposed to tell me that the meeting with the lawyer didn’t go well, and I’ll reassure him, and then we’ll curse the world and continue on. That’s the conversation we’re supposed to have tonight.

            We’re not supposed to be discussing Christmas.

            But he’s obviously had a hard day, and if he’s being a bit strange as a result, I’m not one to go pointing it out. Well, I am, but he’s my boyfriend, and I love him, and I don’t want to make him feel worse than he probably already does.

            “Harry, Christmas means something different to different people. And to different places.”

            “Uh huh,” he says, thinking that I’m having him on.

            “Christmas in magical England is rather different than in regular New York. And it’s different for you and me. Christmas for you, it’s the time of year when you’re with your family, and it’s all cozy and nostalgic and the Weasleys revere you as near to the Christ child.”

            “You can get fucked,” Harry says, and there’s the man I spent months stuck in dreams with.

            “For me, here—Christmas is just this bizarre occasion that doesn’t make a great deal of sense. People go into debt to buy their children presents. People fight over a dinner that takes eight hours to cook and a half hour to eat. It all seems like a great deal of fuss.”

            “Were you this jaded as a child as well?”

            I send him a withering gaze. “Not everyone will feel the same way about things as you do. You realize that, don’t you? I mean, you want me to be excited for a Christian holiday. Do I strike you as a religious person?”

            “Do you honestly think Christmas has ever been about religion for me? Yeah, it’s a good time of year for me. Lots of good memories. Everything that’s been—incredibly fucked up about my life, I’ve almost always had good Christmases since I found out I was a wizard.”

            “Tell me about your Christmases.”

            “But you’ve already read about them—”

            “Shut up and tell me.”

            Harry wants to be annoyed that I told him to shut up, but I can see in his face that he’s too swayed by the prospect of reminiscing. “First thing when I wake up, there’s presents. And it’s not that there’s presents, it’s that people put in the thought. That’ll never stop being brilliant. Molly makes me a new jumper every year—” I bark, and he scowls at me. Those jumpers. I mean—it might be my duty as a queer man to take them out back and burn them all. They offend my eyes. “She makes me a _beautiful_ new jumper, and there’s Chocolate Frogs and Hermione always picks something absolutely perfect. I think back on—” He smiles wistfully. “I think of how Dobby used to make me socks. No one ever gets me socks at Christmas anymore. It’s a silly thing, but—anyways.”

            I’ll tease him to the ends of the earth, because that’s just the way we are, but I know that Harry grew up with as many terrible memories as good. Not bad memories—terrible ones. I’m glad he has these things to hold onto, that make him smile.

            “And you’re always at the Burrow, which makes you _so thrilled_.”

            “It does, and piss off. The Burrow at Christmas—it’s just the happiest place on earth. Everyone there—everyone there loves me. I love them. It’s—” He glances at me, and stops talking.

            “What?” I prompt.

            “It’s—always been my favourite. My favourite place, with my favourite people.” Harry shrugs, and says, “But—”

            “That sounds nice. I’m glad you have that. I’m sure they’ll have plenty to say when you go back next Christmas.”

            Harry stills, looking at me across the table. “Sorry?” he says after a moment.

            I look at him, then let out a laugh. “Harry, it didn’t occur to me that you’d stay here for Christmas. I mean, I didn’t even think about it until this exact moment. It’s so far away. Of course you’d go back to the Burrow for Christmas. You just said, it’s your favourite thing. I wouldn’t try and take that from you. Certainly not when the day itself means fuck all to me.”

            “So…you really don’t want me here at Christmas.”

            I can’t tell if he’s hurt or just taken aback. Tread carefully, Draco. “What I want is for you to be happy. I love you. Terribly, and against all outside reason. But Christmas means nothing to me, Harry. It’s just not a subject we agree upon. So I’ll be here and you’ll go back there and you’ll have your traditions. I want you to have that. I feel bad enough about stealing you away. I’m not going to take _Christmas_ from you as well.”

            “I wouldn’t feel that way about it—”

            “Yes you would.” A thought strikes me, and I put my arms up in triumph. “I’m a felon and can never leave the country. I will _never_ have to awkwardly sit through a Christmas at the Burrow. Oh thank _fuck_.” Propping my head up on my hand, I sigh with relief. “Didn’t even consider that until now.”

            After a moment, Harry says a bit defensively, “It wouldn’t have been—” I gaze at him, and the rest of the sentence is spoken with less conviction. “That bad.”

            “You’re a terrible liar, Harry Potter,” I say, and I think we’ve put the subject to rest.

 

“I don’t want you to feel like I’d just leave you at Christmas.”

            I look at him in the mirror with disbelief. I have my toothbrush in my mouth, halfway through brushing. Harry is clipping his nails over the sink, because he knows I hate it when he does that while I’m trying to get ready for bed.

            Spitting into the sink, I say, “Are you _still_ on about Christmas?”

            “I just—”

            “Harry. It is fucking _March_. This is getting ridiculous.”

            “Well—we should probably talk about these things.”

            “What things? Opinions on holidays? I’m not keen on celebrating Easter either; you want to have a discussion about that as well?”

            “Just—things that are important, that will come up. Traditions.”

            “Why would that be important?”

            Now he’s looking at me like I’ve sprouted a third eye, which is rich considering he’s the one acting peculiar. “Because traditions are important. I have them, you have them. We should figure out how they fit together.”

            “I don’t understand why you’re harping on about this.”

            “I just—want to get things right.”

            “You’ll get it right when you actually listen to me. I don’t want you here at Christmas. The day means nothing to me. It means something to you. You should be with your family. All right? Now—I don’t know about you, but I am _entirely_ done with this topic. It’s crossed the line into the absurd. So—” I spit into the sink one more time. “The next time we discuss Christmas had better be autumn, Harry. And take that stupid tree down. It’s an eyesore.”

            I rinse off my brush and head to bed.

 

Harry wakes me up from a nightmare two evenings later.           

            It happens. Sometimes it’s him, sometimes it’s me. We have an agreement. We wake the other up, then we go back to sleep, if we can. I can’t stand to see how he suffers in his dreams. I don’t imagine he likes it for me either.

            I automatically try to bat his hands away, but he catches my wrist. “It’s me, love. Just me.”          My heart’s beating quickly. It’s all fluttery here in the dark. But we’re in my room. We’re in my room, and Harry’s beside me. There’s nowhere else I could be safer.

            “All right,” I whisper.

            He lets me go and starts rubbing my chest. “You’re good, love.”

            I swallow and try to calm down. It doesn’t matter what the nightmare was. There’s only so many variations on a theme.

            We lay here, he and I, and I take my time coming back to my surroundings. Harry’s watching me, the way he will sometimes. I’ll wake up and catch him watching me. Or he’ll have his hand on me, and his thumb will be tracing my scars. All my many scars.

            I’m finally starting to settle back into sleep when Harry says softly, “Can I tell you something?”

            Dozy, I reply, “Always.”

            “I sussed it out. Why you don’t like Christmas.”

            I open my eyes, and find him in the dark.

            He’s gazing at me, face neutral. Still rubbing my chest in gentle circles.

            “You’re so different that sometimes I do forget, you know. The way things were, when we were young. The way you were. I’m thick, you know that. The past few days, I keep going on about my family, because that’s the best part about Christmas for me. That’s Christmas, for me—my family. I imagine it was the same for you.”

            I don’t know if he wants me to reply. I don’t feel like saying anything, so I don’t.

            “I go on about tradition, and for you—tradition’s a thing that nearly killed you. I bet your every Christmas was the same each year. The same way it’s been for Malfoys going back a thousand years. It all had to be a certain way, or it was wrong. I don’t imagine it was about being happy for you. It was just another thing to do correctly. And then there must be the shame.”

            Sighing, I close my eyes and scratch my brow.

            “You’re the least spoiled man I know, but you were probably the most spoiled child on earth, next to my cousin. You probably look back and want to be sick. I’m not saying that you should be, but I know you, and that’s just how you are. You probably think about your boys, and what they deserve and didn’t get, and what you didn’t deserve and did get. You probably think about all the waste that went into it. All the work for a tradition. You don’t have the best of relationships when it comes to your family and tradition. I didn’t think about that, and so I’m sorry.”

            He stops talking. He probably wants me to say something. And I’m tempted to tell him to just go back to sleep. Remarkably tempted.

            But he’s being considerate, and that’s not always the way he is.

            “We have very different memories, you and I,” I say.

            “We do.”

            “There was a time when your triumphs were my failures, and vice versa. It’s all a matter of perspective. I understand that it’s important to you—Christmas and all that. Family is important to you. It’s a thing you found, a thing you earned, and I’m so happy you did. It’s just not the same for me. I can’t feel the way about it that you do.”

            “The past isn’t all there is—”

            “Of course it isn’t. But it’s there. I wouldn’t want to be rid of the past, Harry. It’s made me the person I am. And I really like the person I am. The person I am gets to have you. But the past shapes a lot of things. I use it where I can, and discard the parts I don’t need. One day of the year—it’s just a day. I’d rather—make happy memories with you all the year round. I don’t want you to look forward to one day where you remember that I love you. That’s all my days.”

            He puts a hand to my face, his thumb on my chin. “Draco—”

            “Can you let this go? Because I’m asking. You know all my sore spots. This isn’t one you need to keep poking at. Can you leave it be?”

            Asking Harry Potter to leave something be. Next I’ll see if he’ll pluck out his eyes for me.

            Harry lets out a deep breath, like I’ve asked the impossible. But he gives me a little smile, and slips his arm under me. “Come here, you.” He pulls me partly on top of him. He knows I like to listen to his heartbeat. “You and your emotional damage.”

            I protest, “That’s the pot calling the fucking kettle—”

            “I love you and your emotional damage. Every day of the year.”

            Settling down, I murmur, “All romance, you are.”

            Only he puts a hand into my hair, stroking one of my scars. I close my eyes, and I sleep, because there is nowhere safer than here.

 

I’m waiting outside my parole officer’s door when Harry texts me.

            Miserable, because I hate these fucking meetings, I open up the message. ‘Coming over tonight?’

            ‘Depends. How much alcohol do you have?’

            ‘What time will you be here?’

            Sighing, I think about it. ‘If I get out of here in two hours I’ll be lucky.’

            I tug at the silver bracelet on my right wrist while I wait for him to reply. I forget that it’s there sometimes. Monitoring me and my magic every second of the day. As it will for the next five years.

            It’s just a bracelet. I don’t regret how I got it. Not for a single solitary second.

            ‘See you in 2 hours! Don’t forget to smile!’

            Oh, I could kill him. I’m about to type out the nastiest thing I can think of when the door opens and my name is called.

            So I take a deep breath and get to my feet, and I smile.

 

I am tired.

            He might be right. The pace I’ve set myself at is perhaps not sustainable. Only I don’t intend to be doing my community service when I’m fifty. I want to do my time and then get myself away from magics and all their madness.

            I’m riding the elevator up to his place. Usually I’d just apparate onto his roof, but I fancied a bit of a walk after the meeting. My parole officer exhausts me. She is…something else.

            I need to shake all this off so I can be present when I see him. I’m not the only one with problems. He’s due to go back to the lawyer again in a few days, to keep fighting on with the registration.

            I brought him here, I demanded it of him, and now he has to keep fighting. Just so he can do the thing I demanded of him. It should have been easy. Getting the wandmaker registration.

            It should have been.

            At some point, I feel as though I should just figure it out. How to be a good boyfriend. Not just going at it day by day. Never quite certain how to navigate the landmines or trust the moments of happiness. Everything else in my life, I approach with confidence. I’m a Malfoy, of course I do. Him, though—this.

            Can’t fuck this up. I know what it feels like to lose him. It’s like the sun dims. Nor is it just that I’m scared of losing him. I’m just—happier with him. I feel happier when he’s in my line of sight, when I can touch his hair or rest my chin on his shoulder.

            Tired. I’m too tired. All this vulnerability is enough to turn my stomach.

            The elevator lets me out on his floor, and I take even breaths as I walk down the hall, pulling the keys from my pocket. I’ve had keys to his from the start, and he’s had keys to mine. “You’re always welcome here,” Harry told me, and I blushed.

            Harry. My Harry.

            I’m smiling a little. I must be quite the lost cause if even the thought of him is making me smile. So I unlock the door and step inside.

            “I’ve a novel idea,” I say, pushing the door closed. “What if we cook tonight—what the fuck.”

            The apartment has been transformed. Everything is lit with blue and white lights. The Christmas tree is back up in the corner, only it’s been decorated. Ornaments made of glass and something frosted. There are figurines, delicate little things—woodland creatures all in shimmering pale blue and white, resting on the various surfaces. They all seem to be sleeping.

            There’s music playing softly. Carols. The air smells subtly of pine. And snow.

            The ceiling makes everything glow beautifully, eerily. It’s the same spell I use to light my room at night, only the colours are different. Strands of white and blue light drift just below the ceiling. I watch it a moment, how calm and peaceful it all seems.

            I startle when Harry says, “I’ll explain before you think I’ve lost my mind.”

            He’s standing in the kitchen doorway with a smile. He was obviously waiting there to see what my reaction would be. “I’m not sure you can explain your way out of this one,” I reply.

            Harry walks over, wrapping his hands around my right one, threading our fingers together. “I know you think I’ve been a touch obsessed with the topic.”

            Looking at the tree, I say, “What could possibly give you that impression?”

            “Here’s the thing. I love Christmas, and I want to share it with you. But you’re right. Traditions—sometimes they’re good. Sometimes they’re fucking dreadful. So I thought we could maybe try a few of our own. Like Christmas in March. Just the two of us. Or September, or whenever you want to have it. It won’t be about presents or anything. I did get you one, but that’s just because I like giving you presents, not because I think you expect them.”

            There is a single present under the tree. The wrapping job he’s done is abysmal.

            “We can make our own traditions. Our own way, like we have with everything else. I didn’t think you’d expect the colour scheme, so I tried that. It’s a bit silly that nearly twenty years on, we’re both decorating with our house colours. I thought maybe we could try blue. And if you don’t like this, we could try something else next time.” Harry bites the side of his mouth, watching me. “My life is here with you. I want to have traditions with you. Christmas is about family, and you—”

            I look down at the ground, pulling my lips into my mouth.

            Harry gives it a moment, then says, “Did I go too far?”

            “You know how we’ve talked about you never knowing when to quit?”

            He lets out a worried sigh. “Draco, I’m s—”

            I do knock him back a step or two by flinging my arms around his neck and kissing his mouth hard enough to bruise. Harry lets out a startled sound against my lips, but then I feel his hands on my back. I sink my hands into his beautiful dark hair, pushing his head back so I don’t have to lean down.

            When I let him breathe, Harry says, “So you like that I go too far.”

            I start pulling his shirt out of his trousers, shaking my head. “I fucking hate you when you do this.”

            “Do what?” he says, stripping the shirt over his head.

            “When you’re _you_ ,” I say, ducking in to kiss him again. I hook one hand around the back of his neck and the other goes down his ever-warm side. His hands are on my neck, my face, working on the buttons of my shirt.

            He’s an insane person. I’m madly in love with an insane person.

 

We sit for a long time on the couch, naked and under a blanket. Harry has somehow ended up nearly in my lap, even though he weighs more than I do and never has anything but complaints about how naturally cool my body temperature is.

            The woodland creatures have woken, and are tentatively moving about. A doe noses at one of the branches on the tree, which is very slowly rotating. I prefer my Christmas decorations to be stationary, but there’s something peaceful about watching this little scene play out.           

            I run my hand up and down Harry’s back. He’s stopped shivering now that his body has warmed my touch. My head rests against his. I can tell from the way that he’s breathing that he’s getting sleepy.

            “This is my favourite carol,” I say.

            He perks up a little, blinking up at me. “Yeah?”

            ‘O Holy Night’ is being played on violin from some unseen source. “Yeah. I prefer the more classic carols. Mariah Carey makes me want to vomit.”

            “I’ve no idea who that is.”

            “Bless you.” I pull his hair back from his forehead and kiss his scar. I don’t do it often. It’s a piece of him that will never belong to me, and I’m shy about touching him there. I look down into his green eyes, and I say what’s in my heart. “You’re a very special man.”

            “Because I don’t know who Mary Carey is?”

            With a smile, I say, “Yeah,” even though we both know that’s not what I mean. Harry rests his head on my shoulder again, and I wrap my arms around him.

            It might take awhile, but at some point I think I’ll figure out that happiness with this man is a thing I can trust.

           

He falls asleep, and I get him up long enough to put him to bed. I do love his couch, but I don’t love it enough to sleep on it with him. Harry doesn’t say much, just falls on the bed and pulls the blankets over himself. He’s dead useless when he’s sleepy.

            Which means it’s easy for me to go put on my boots and jacket and leave the apartment.

            I go down the street, to the 24-hour convenience store. The young man behind the counter barely spares me a glance, too busy with his phone.

            I go up and down the aisles until I find what I want. When the bored cashier rings me up, it’s a total of $2. I don’t expect them to last. I can find better tomorrow once the world is awake again. I just want these to be waiting for Harry when he wakes up.

            When I let myself back into the apartment, everything is as I left it. The living room is still washed in that gentle blue, the tree is slowly spinning. There’s one present under the tree.

            I crouch down by it, and pick up the tag. He’s written ‘To: Ferret Face.’ Prick. But under that, he’s written, ‘Yours.’ Nothing more than that. Not even his name.

            With a sigh, I think about what Christmas has meant to me. About my family, how it’s all been tangled up together, and how much easier it would be to just ignore this stupid tradition. Only I love Harry Potter with all of my strange, battered heart.

            So I put the pair of socks under the tree.

             That done, I get up and go back to the bedroom, so I can wake up next to Harry. If Christmas is about family, then I want to be with mine.

            And that’s him.

             


End file.
